


Shaking In My Hands

by xxjinchuurikixx



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Cold Water, Emergency Medical Techniques, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hypothermia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-20 12:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18126212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxjinchuurikixx/pseuds/xxjinchuurikixx
Summary: Daryl does something stupid to protect Jesus.*I drop Daryl into some really cold water.





	Shaking In My Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a little ficlet of Desus fluff a while ago, and I really enjoyed it? I'd like to get into this pairing and explore them a bit more, but this fic is really just fulfilling my shameless need for kisses and desperate fucking to stay warm. Enjoy that.
> 
> xo, mo. Come yell at me on tumblr! [xxjinchuurikixx](http://xxjinchuurikixx.tumblr.com/)

Runs in cold weather were miserable. The brisk wind came up from the west and the east and decided, simultaneously, to make everything cold as balls. Daryl has to break out the good coat Carol got for him a while back, the dense, dark material lined on the inside with that fluffy white stuff. Daryl puts it on over his vest and two thermals just to walk from his trailer to the mansion in the middle of Hilltop, because he can’t stop worrying about… Well.

Maggie lets him in, dressed warm despite the comfortable temperature in the mansion. Daryl hugs her, feels the swell of her slowly growing belly against his own, and lets her take his jacket.

Judith has a cough, and Daryl paces like a mad dog back and forth outside her room for twenty minutes before he goes in.

Rick is holding her in a thick blanket, Michonne sleeping in the loveseat by the window. Daryl clears his throat, and Rick looks over at him, smiling tiredly.

“Can I do anythin’?” Daryl asks, hand fluttering awkwardly on the doorframe.

Rick sighs, kissing his daughter’s head. “She’s just tired… Siddiq says we don’t have the kind of antibiotics she needs… She’s too small for the stuff we have, and we just ran out of those Tylenol chewables Ezekiel gave us.”

Daryl comes over, stroking Judith’s cheek with his knuckle, watching her smile sleepily at him before turning her face into Rick’s chest to cough some more. “I can go find some. That pharmacy up the frontage road? Just over that bridge. We never cleared it out. It was swarmed last time we tried.”

“Daryl, she’s gonna be alright… You shouldn’t go out there in this weather,” Rick says. “Plus if the walkers are still all over it—“

“What, cold? It ain’t a blizzard and the roads ain’t icy.”

“You can’t ride your bike in thirty degrees.”

“I’ll take a car. The old Beamer. The heater works; I’ll run it low to save the gas.” Daryl presses his big hand to Judith’s back, his palm covering Rick’s fingers. “C’mon, just lemme do this. She needs the right kinda medicine, or she won’t get no better.”

After a long, weighted silence, Rick exhales, shifting Judith in his arms so he can pat Daryl’s shoulder. “Don’t go by yourself.”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Okay, ma.”

He tromps out of the Hilltop mansion, dragging on his jacket before he goes. When he gets back to his place, he loads a two guns and takes his big hunting knife, then slings his crossbow over his shoulder and heads out.

As he’s hopping down his little trailer porch, low and behold, his favorite pain in the ass hippie appears. Daryl stumbles down the last step, casually masking the fault as he looks Jesus up and down. 

Jesus smiles at him, wool beanie pulled down over his ears, a black zip-up under his leather trench coat. “Morning. You goin’ somewhere?”

Daryl keeps walking, and Jesus follows. “Judith is sick. Gonna make a run to one of the pharmacies we ain’t hit yet.”

“You’re not going by yourself, are you?”

“I take it you’re comin’ whether I ask you to or not,” Daryl huffs.

“Well that’s practically an invitation.” Daryl can basically hear the smile in his voice, and he turns and gives Jesus the side eye. “Come on, Daryl. I’m the perfect companion for this kind of mission. Speed, stealth, enjoyable banter.”

“The sound of you yackin’ ain’t exactly enjoyable,” Daryl says, tugging open the door of the old Beamer. When they found the thing it didn’t run right, but he fixed it up in Aaron and Eric’s garage before… Well, there’s been a lot of ‘befores’.

“Well, you could go by yourself. But I imagine Rick wouldn’t be too happy when I told him about it,” Jesus says, lacing his gloved fingers together innocently.

Daryl growls through his teeth, tossing his stuff into the back seat. “You got a gun?”

“I call shotgun,” Jesus says, no pun intended, then walks around the car and climbs into the passenger seat.

Daryl gives the car a few minutes to warm up, then turns the heater to high heat, low power, and signals Tara up at the gate to open up.

The drive is, surprisingly, quiet. Jesus rests against the door, practically napping, and Daryl keeps his eyes on the road. Jesus smells great. Really great, actually, and Daryl absolutely hates that. But he also awkwardly stretches and tries to get a whiff of himself, just to make sure he doesn’t stink.

“Do you know what we’re looking for?” Jesus asks as they get off the frontage road and drive up the little patchy path, and Daryl pulls over just before the bridge and shuts the car off.

“Rick said antibiotics. Ones for kids,” Daryl says, and he and Jesus both climb out.

“You didn’t want to park closer?”

“Last time we came, there were too many walkers. Don’t wanna get the car stuck if I don’t hafta,” Daryl replies.

Jesus nods. “Alright. Well, hopefully they’ve moved on.” He reaches into the backseat and grabs one of the empty recycling bags, testing the zipper and traps before gesturing for Daryl to lead the way.

He does, crossbow raised, and they walk through the trees along the side of the road until they come around the bend, the little strip of shops alongside the pharmacy and gas station practically deserted. There’s a walker aimlessly walking between the gas pumps, and five or six more eating the carcass of something in one of the parking lots. A few more straggle here and there, and Daryl looks to Jesus, who follows his lead.

The crossbow wizzes a few times, Jesus knifes a few skulls, and then the parking lot is miserably quiet in the gray, wet morning.

Daryl jimmies a knife into the pharmacy door, and thanks the holy whatevers that there isn’t a bell above the door, because there’s three more walkers inside.

Jesus takes them out, then starts filling the recycle bag with things off the shelves. “Get behind the counter. Antibiotics, painkillers--the works.”

Daryl hops over the edge of the counter and promptly crushes the skull of the poor little pharmacy walker on the floor.

“This place hasn’t been touched… It’s insane,” Jesus says, filling his bag with different boxes of medicines and bandages.

“Told ya it was swarmed. That cluster must’ve moved on to another herd,” Daryl says, looking around the dusty pharmacy. He sees the pediatrics and starts grabbing shit. Stuff might be expired or unnecessary, but it might come in handy sooner or later.

Daryl stuffs his bag full, grabbing other prescription drugs one of their groups might need sooner or later, then he grabs a few of the bags from behind the counter and fills them, too.

“Daryl, we can come back,” Jesus says, leaning over the counter.

“Yeah, and we will. But who knows how much of this stuff’ll stay safe without a pack of walkers out front.” He hands Jesus two of the sacks, keeping his own pack with Judith’s medicine close as he hops back over the counter.

“Alright, well, we’ll try to make it back within the week, maybe bring someone else along to carry more,” Jesus says.

“Alright.”

They make their way back out of the pharmacy, and Daryl drags a little shelf of postcards towards the door after them, effectively blocking the one side from opening. He bolts the bottom of the other door, then looks up at Jesus, who is peering down at him with a curious grin.

“Might keep the less persistent walkers out.”

Jesus nods, twisting his blade over in one hand, pointing the butt of the handle at the road. “Shall we?”

Daryl leads, crossbow raised, and they move to the edge of the road and then through the trees. When they get up by the embankment near the bridge, Daryl slings his crossbow over his shoulder, hoisting the bag up for a better grip.

“Anythin’ else you want while we’re out runnin’ errands? New socks? A nice hat?” Daryl says, observing the empty stretch of the bridge, the Beamer still sitting quiet on the other side.

“I like my hat,” Jesus says.

“Maybe a muzzle then.”

“Aw, Daryl, you don’t bite.”

“Shut up,” Daryl huffs, and he heads up the hill on swift, light feet. He gets around to the back of the Beamer and opens the trunk, tossing his pack inside. Jesus tosses him the other few bags, fingers skidding along the edge of the passenger side door as Daryl shuts the trunk.

“Hey, did you know some drug stores apparently carry old CDs?” Jesus asks, holding up a CD case in his free hand.

Daryl practically staggers back, pointing an accusatory finger at the shiny square. “No. Hell naw; driver picks the music.”

“You never play music.”

“That’s my choice cause ‘m drivin’.”

“Then let me drive.”

“Like hell—“

The bony claws that dig into Daryl’s back are only stopped by the coat he’s wearing over his vest, and the snapping teeth that clatter beside his ear are only halted by Jesus grabbing Daryl by the front of his shirt collar and dragging him down.

The walker flips over Daryl’s head as he lands on his knees, and then a second comes snarling up the embankment from the trees.

And a third. And a fourth. Across the other side of the bridge, another is stumbling, and Daryl gets up and lashes his knife into the skull of the second walker.

Jesus gets the first to the ground, a knee in its stomach, and stabs it through the head, then, looking up, he yanks the blade out and throws it end over end into the skull of one of the walkers approaching from the other side of the bridge.

Daryl stabs another walker, the stench of its warm breath gusting out as it crumples to the pavement. He twists around, stomach plummeting down in a cold rush.

Jesus is slouching over the dead one, kneeling back as the fifth walker staggers over, bony hand pawing for the back of Jesus’ neck, mouth dropped open.

Daryl’s legs kick into action before his brain catches up, and he bodily slams into the walker before it can get its teeth locked around Jesus’ shoulder.

The walker screeches, Jesus twists around, and Daryl feels its leg break as it collides with the little guard rail along the bridge. Then gravity tilts, tips, and Daryl goes right over the railing with it, a brief moment of weightless panic before the rushing water swallows him head first.

The rocks under him slip, wet and mossy, the water bites right through Daryl’s skin and floods his mouth in an icy gush. His head breaches the surface, just as the walker snaps at him. Daryl staggers back, hand fumbling at the hunter’s knife on his thigh. He grabs the walker by its front and stabs it through the eye, and when its awkward, twisted body sinks under and floats off, there’s another behind it, wading into the water from the far bank.

Daryl slips a few times fighting his crossbow off his shoulder, his head dunking under the surface, the roar of the cold air silenced by the rush of frigid water. He points his bow at the walker, snarling as it wades into the waist-deep current, and pulls the trigger.

The arrow sinks into the dead thing’s forehead, and it crumples backwards into the water.

Without the threat of death stumbling towards him with rotted face, Daryl realizes just how fucking cold the water is. He remembers it’s still sort of winter, and he’s soaking wet, and the water rushing past him is dark and icy under the clouded sky. 

Daryl wades through the water, from waist to hips, cursing mentally for losing an arrow, pissed off for being a miserable, dripping wet dog.

He throws his crossbow up onto the dry land, stumbling across the rocks under his feet, the current pulling at his hips.

_ Well that was fuckin’ stupid, _ Daryl thinks, clawing himself onto the bank on the side of the river. The cold air hits him like tiny little razors, his face and lungs burning, everything suddenly flooded with a bone-deep, gnawing ache.

Daryl falls on his side, panting, hands trembling, and he tilts his head to the sky and thinks he sees a big dog in the dense blanket of gray clouds. He hasn’t felt this delirious since he fell down that little cliffside and landed on his own arrow looking for Sofia. He touches a wildly trembling hand to the spot, abdomen quivering, and loses the feeling in his toes.

There’s a commotion, shouting, and then cold leather-gloved hands are grabbing his face, shaking him.

“Daryl? Daryl, come on. Come on, on your feet,” Jesus’ voice says, and Daryl opens his eyes and blinks up at him.

Jesus is looking over him, blocking the cloud-dog, and Daryl squints.

“’m I dead?” He asks, throat working around a dry swallow.

Shaking his head, Jesus hoists Daryl up, and he manages to understand his own legs well enough to follow as Jesus leads them back up the embankment, dragging his crossbow along. “Not yet, you’re not. We gotta get you warmed up. Come on.”

Daryl stumbles over rocks and logs, the water of the river splashing beside them growing faint compared to the sound of his pounding heart. “Fucken cold,” he says, leaning hard into Jesus, who has suddenly become the warmest thing in the world.

“Hey, I need you to focus, alright? What’s your name?”

“You hit your head?” Daryl snarls, but Jesus opens the backseat door instead of the passenger door, and Daryl practically falls in when his legs quiver out from beneath him.

“No, Daryl, but you could have. Also, one of the signs of hypothermia is confusion or lack of perception. What’s your name?”

“Daryl. ‘s Daryl Dixon,” Daryl shudders, watching with confusion as Jesus climbs in beside him, shutting the door before leaning over the center console to turn the car on. He turns the heater on full blast and shrugs out of his jacket, then his beanie. He pulls his gloves off with his teeth and tosses them into the driver’s seat. The crossbow and Daryl’s knife get tossed into the passenger seat, and the inside of the car sounds like a muffled hurricane.

“Good, good. What’s Rick’s daughter’s name?”

“Judith.”

“Why were we out here?”

“…Meds. Coughin’ meds,” Daryl tries to clench and unclench his hands, but they stay fists against his chest. He tries to get his knees up to his chest, fuck, it’s so cold, but he can’t figure it out.

“Alright, Daryl. Great job,” Jesus says, turning back to Daryl. He grabs Daryl’s jacket front and leans in close. “And me. What’s my name?”

Daryl looks up at him, and his trembling seems to cease for a few stuttering breaths. Jesus’ eyes are so gray today—less green-blue than usual, but still big and shiny. Daryl looks down at his mouth, then away completely.

“Pain in th’ ass?”

“Daryl.”

“Paul Rovia, ya dickhead. But we call ya Jesus,” Daryl huffs out. “In all your holiness.”

“Thanks,” Jesus says, then shoves Daryl’s jacket down his arms.

Daryl starts to protest, the jacket getting dragged off his arms, and he feels a new sensation of cold when his vest and two thermals are suddenly open to the air.

“Daryl, we gotta get you out of these wet clothes. You need to dry off to get warm. Boxers and socks, too. All of it,” Jesus says, stripping his black zip-up hoodie and then pulling his sweatshirt over his head. “Mild hypothermia is currently treatable, so we can’t let you get any colder.”

Daryl gulps, Jesus kneeling between his legs in the backseat of a tiny old Beamer in a stupid white Henley. “I can do it myself,” he growls, knocking his head back against the window.

“Can you? You can barely use your hands.” Jesus takes his sweater and uses it to dry Daryl’s shaggy hair to the best of his abilities, and Daryl thinks he blacks out for a moment in the process.

“I can. Gimme a sec…” Daryl says, and he sits up a little and manages to wrestle off his vest, which Jesus deposits on the floor behind the passenger seat. He struggles with his two thermals, but Jesus helps drag them over his head, and they join the pile. Begrudgingly, Daryl offers his feet to Jesus, and mumbles, “Help.”

Jesus unfastens his boots and yanks them off, and then has to peel Daryl’s soaking socks off like a second layer of flesh. They smack unattractively on the floor.

Daryl shudders, naked, damp flesh exposed to the gusting heater air, but Jesus dries him quickly, warm fingers skidding over gooseflesh, and Daryl can hardly breathe by the time he turns his back to Jesus and gets his boxers stuck around his ankles.

“Fuck,” Daryl grumbles, shivering violently. 

“Daryl? We’ve gotta get you warmed up, okay? Scoot over here,” Jesus says, and Daryl shoots a glare over his shoulder.

“Fuck no,” he growls, quaking. He shakes his foot until his boxers are on the floor, then wraps his arms around his knees and stifles a whimper into his thigh.

Jesus’ hands are so,  _ so _ warm when he carefully touches Daryl’s shoulders, then pulls him back a bit across the seat while scooting forward.

Daryl squirms, a wild animal being held when it doesn’t want to be, but Jesus just drags him bodily back into a warm, bare chest and tight arms. With one arm across Daryl’s chest, Jesus grabs his zip-up and his trench coat and drags them over them like blankets, which Daryl kicks at.

“Settle down,” Jesus growls, chin pressing into Daryl’s shoulder, beard scratching, tickling. “I’m trying to save your life.”

Daryl struggles a moment more, the sudden overwhelming feeling of being held making it harder to breathe. Jesus squeezes him tighter, getting his leg up along Daryl’s thigh, holding Daryl like he’s tiny and pathetic.

“Calm down, fuck. You’re like a cat in the bath.”

“I didn’t volunteer to be yer fucken little spoon,” Daryl huffs, twisting. “Why’d you take yer shirt off?”

“Skin to skin is the quickest, safest way to heat someone who’s been dipped in freezing water. Kinda like you.”

“Wasn’t dipped. Had to save some hippie from bein’ lunch. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize when I save your toes and other precious appendages.” 

“Why don’t you warm up my feet first then?”

“Gotta warm your core first. If the cold blood from your arms and legs rushes to your heart too quick, you can suffer shock or have a heart attack. Like I said, this is the safest way. Keep you lying mostly flat, and warm your core arteries. Neck, chest, groin,” Jesus says, turning his face into Daryl’s neck and breathing a dense gust of hot air across the skin.

Before he can get out a distraught ‘ _ groin?! _ ’, Daryl stiffens, choking on his own breath, and stills.

Jesus chuckles. “Aha. An off switch,” he says, just beneath Daryl’s ear, and Daryl stuffs his hands between his thighs. Not like Jesus can see his dick, but… Well, he doesn’t think that’s a thing that’s going to happen.

It’s quiet for a little bit, the heater breathing loud, hot air, Jesus perfectly still, holding Daryl in his arms with his lips on his neck.

Daryl quivers, twisting a bit, and Jesus squeezes him tight. “Jus’ wanna get more comfortable. Not gonna escape,” he grumbles.

“As if I’d let you,” Jesus says, relenting his grip a bit.

Daryl turns onto one side, dragging his legs up under the trench coat. His hands skid over Jesus’ naked chest, and long hair tickles his face when Jesus flinches at that. Daryl hides his face in Jesus’ chest, which earns him a hand in his still-damp hair.

“Your nose is like a popsicle,” Jesus sighs, and the touch is gone for a moment before he’s draping his dry Henley over Daryl’s head like another blanket.

“Don’ remember popsicles… Been a long time since I had one,” Daryl says quietly, and Jesus’ hands find him under the jacket, palms flat and warm as he rubs along Daryl’s shoulders and arm. It’s slow, gentle, like he’s trying not to spook a horse.

“Yeah, the whole world ending doesn’t leave much time to freeze a few ice-trays of kool-aid with toothpicks in them,” Jesus says wistfully.

Daryl swallows, throat clicking. “My brother said… it was gay. Only fags like suckin’ on things. That’s what he said,” he groans, lifting a hand to scrub it down his face. “’m sorry, I dunno why I said that. I hate that word.”

“It’s okay… Is your brother the reason why you’re so closeted?” Jesus asks.

“Dunno. He sure didn’t help… Him an’ my pa were dicks. If Merle saw me now, he’d drag me back down to the river, butt-ass naked, and hold me under… I think,” Daryl says.

Jesus’ fingertips touch along a few of the knotted, raised marks across Daryl’s back, his breath warm in Daryl’s hair when he says, “Did he do these?”

Daryl shakes his head fiercely. “My pa. Merle, he’d slug me, I’d punch back, but he never really hurt me. He took better care of me than pa.”

“Then maybe he’d be alright with it. With this,” Jesus says.

“With what?”

“You know. You being gay.”

Daryl’s mind sputters to a halt, a clock with a wrench tossed into the gears, and everything is grinding, squeaking silence, and then he sits bolt upright, grabs Jesus by the neck, and slams his head back against the window.

“I ain’t gay,” he seethes. “Don’t try an’ use yer queer radar on me; I ain’t fucken like that.”

Jesus grabs Daryl’s wrist, squeezing but not fighting back. “Daryl, I just asked if your brother was why you were in the closet and you basically agreed.”

“What?”

“Daryl, it’s alright.”

“It ain’t alright. Nothin’s alright, I ain’t gay,” Daryl growls, yanking his hand away.

The car tilts, and he can’t feel his feet or shins—weird—but he feels Jesus grab his arms and hoist him back, close.

“Daryl… You’re still too cold,” Jesus says. “You can forget everything,  _ everything _ I said if it helps, but you still need to get warm. I just want to help, please.”

“Can’t forget. It’s your fault— _ all _ your fault.”

“I—“

“It’s your stupid hair, an’ your goddamn fuckin’ eyes. Can’t think right when you’re around. I’ve been fine for years, fuckin’  _ decades _ , then  _ you— _ “

“Daryl!” Jesus snaps, voice somehow demanding and gentle in the same breath, and Daryl looks up at him, eyes stinging. Jesus reaches up, curves his fingers along the shape of Daryl’s stubbled cheek, and Daryl almost sinks into the touch like soft butter.

But he rears back, smacking Jesus’ hand away. He hugs the trench coat around his shoulders, toes still having trouble curling. “Jus’ leave me alone. Can’t you just do that? Just… go bother someone else. Know you could get some other guy to get on his knees for ya,” Daryl grumbles, but it makes his stomach sick to think about Jesus with someone else, even for a second.

But that’s the trouble, isn’t it? Daryl gets sick when he thinks of Jesus being with  _ him _ . He can’t win, no matter the situation.

Jesus is still, quiet, so long Daryl thinks, maybe, he’s been abandoned to freeze to death. Maybe it’s all been an elaborate hallucination; his brain’s last hurrah after sinking to the bottom of the freezing river.

There’s a hand, careful, brushing the hair back from Daryl’s face, touching along his cheekbone to his chin. Jesus lightly cups Daryl’s face, making him look up, and Daryl’s so cold and tired he doesn’t have the strength to fight it, not really.

Jesus looks across every nook and cranny of Daryl’s face, along his tiny scars and soft brows, his lashes and his cheeks. “Daryl, I don’t exactly  _ want _ anyone else,” he says. “And I wouldn’t ever,  _ ever _ ask you to do something you don’t want to do, let alone have you get on your knees for me.”

Daryl glances away, because fuck, yeah, he said that out loud.

Jesus pulls him back. “ _ But _ … I wouldn’t exactly turn down the offer.”

The quick flare of heat in Daryl’s face is both welcome and painful, because he’s still shivering, his blood has more important things to do than make him look like a blushy asshole. “Shuddup,” Daryl mumbles, and Jesus cups his face in both hands.

“You want me to get on my knees for you instead?”

“I said shut it,” Daryl growls, but there’s no real bite to it. 

“Daryl? You’re incredible. You’re smart and stubborn and incredibly brave and kind, and I knew from the moment we got you back from the Saviors that I was gonna do anything and everything to make you like me. I wanna make you mine,” Jesus says, knocking their foreheads together.

His breath is hot on Daryl’s lips, their noses brushing, and Daryl shudders, trembles, hands needing something to grab. “Why would ya wanna do somethin’ stupid like that?”

“Cause I like you,” Jesus says, his lips almost touching Daryl’s, thumbs tracing arcs over his cheekbones. 

“No you don’t.”

“Can’t help it,” Jesus says. “I’ve liked you since you punched me in the face after I saved your life. Must be your sparkling personality.”

“…You scare me,” Daryl gasps, breathless, eyes burning as he closes them.

Jesus strokes one hand into his hair, the other along his jaw, thumb touching Daryl’s mouth, just at the corner. “Don’t be scared of me.”

Daryl nods, hands finally finding a place to rest upon Jesus’ arms, and when he licks his lips to wet them, he tastes Jesus’ mouth, too. His chest floods with heat, and Daryl pushes his mouth against Jesus’ with zero finesse and even less patience, but Jesus reins him in. He holds Daryl steady, fingers tangling in Daryl’s hair, and he parts their lips in tandem and licks into Daryl’s mouth.

The sound Daryl makes is high and needy, so broken he’d shoot himself in the foot with his crossbow if he could think straight.

Jesus releases his chin to run a hand down Daryl’s chest, warm fingers and palm smoothing over the plains of muscle, ridges of scar, the softness of Daryl’s stomach. “I was going to suggest we warm you up like this, but I thought you might stab me if I did.”

Daryl groans. “Still could.”

“I’ll make it so good for you you’ll stab me if I stop.” Jesus grins, kissing Daryl again, deeper, tongue laving over Daryl’s in sure, hungry strokes.

Daryl’s shivers grow faint, the roiling feeling in his blood billowing and settling in his stomach, and he tries to bring his knees together, but Jesus’ leg is between them. “Jesus—“

“Lie back. C’mon,” Jesus says, and Daryl doesn’t argue. He lets Jesus get the sweatshirt hooked around his shoulders, ducks his head for Jesus to pull the hood up, then stretches back under Jesus’ hands, feeling hot all over despite knowing he’s still shaking.

Jesus wriggles his jacket out from under Daryl, lifting his head so he can tuck his Henley under Daryl’s head like a pillow, kissing him as he strokes his hands down Daryl’s sides. He grabs Daryl’s hips, touches his thighs, licks into Daryl’s mouth and moans like he’s never tasted anything better.

Daryl paws his hands over Jesus’ shoulders, down his toned arms then over his chest. He’s never felt anything so good under his own fingers, never felt anything so warm and smooth and  _ right. _

Jesus kneels up, draping his trench coat over his shoulders, and he nudges Daryl’s legs apart and grins. “Safe to say your blood flow is increasing.”

“You little shit,” Daryl growls. He chokes on his next breath, head thumping back against the door as Jesus carefully wraps his fingers around Daryl’s stiff cock.

“If you aren’t nice, I’m gonna stop,” Jesus teases, draping himself over Daryl’s body, latching his lips onto Daryl’s neck.

It gets warm fast, so fast Daryl thinks he might be sweating, burning, too hot for him to feel this good about it. Jesus strokes him to full hardness in minutes, twisting his wrist and swirling his thumb over the head  _ just right _ every time. He alternates between tender presses of his lips along Daryl’s throat with quick bites, then licking and sucking, until Daryl is writhing into it.

He has his nails dug into Jesus’ shoulders under the coat, the world narrowed down to the warm fingers getting his cock wet, an arm pressed between his back and the seat cushions.

Daryl is panting when Jesus eases up, biting along Daryl’s jaw before kissing his bottom lip. “You okay?” Jesus rests his temple against Daryl’s cheek, slowing the motion of his hand.

Gulping, Daryl nods. “You feel good,” he huffs, and one of his hands twitches. He bites his lip, stomach twisting up as he lifts his hand from Jesus’ shoulder and finally,  _ finally _ , threads his fingers into that long, pretty hair.

Jesus arches his neck into the touch like a kitten, making a sweet noise as Daryl gets some of the locks twisted around his fingers and tugs. When Jesus looks at him, his pretty gray-green eyes are nearly swallowed by the shadow of lust, and Jesus keeps eye contact as he slides down Daryl’s body, one hand skimming up Daryl’s chest to toy with one dusky nipple.

Daryl jolts, his knees buckling, because he’s never even done that to  _ himself _ , let alone the added pleasure that comes from it being Jesus’ fingers on him. “Fuck, wha—“he cuts off, all the air in his lungs solidifying as Jesus’ tongue runs wet and hot from the base of Daryl’s cock to the tip.

Daryl yanks at Jesus’ hair, a throaty whine punched from his gut as Jesus kisses wetly along his dick. Daryl lifts his other hand, knees falling open as wide as they can in the small backseat as he rakes both hands into Jesus’ hair and pulls.

Jesus licks across the head, and before Daryl can comprehend exactly what’s happening, Jesus is hollowing his cheeks and sucking the length of Daryl’s cock down to the root. Daryl feels the tip of his dick bump Jesus’ throat, and he’s overwhelmed by warm, wet, tight,  _ good _ .

When he pulls Jesus’ hair and bucks his hips a little, Jesus doesn’t even flinch. He just uses his free hand to pin Daryl’s hip down and then gives his other nipple a sharp pinch.

Daryl thinks he should be ashamed of all the noise he’s making, panting and whimpering while Jesus bobs his head along his cock, hair getting absolutely fucked by Daryl’s fingers. “Fuck… Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck. _ ”

Jesus pulls off with an obscene, wet noise, his tongue doing something sinfully twisted along the vein on the underside of Daryl’s dick. He grins, lips softly touching the wet tip of Daryl’s cock. “Don’t think we have the proper supplies for that,” he huffs, voice sounding a bit rougher, lower.

Daryl uses his grasp on Jesus’ hair to drag him back up, and he kisses him messily, roughly, teeth clicking and lips burning. Jesus returns his enthusiasm, and when Daryl gets his hands between them and claws at Jesus’ belt buckle, Jesus stifles a moan into Daryl’s mouth.

“Take it out, c’mon,” Daryl growls, fingers still a little too stiff for the fine motor skills it takes to fight the button and zipper, but Jesus kisses him and, politely, bats his hands away.

“Touch yours,” Jesus says, kneeling up as he yanks his pants open, and Daryl doesn’t think he’ll ever argue with this stupid hippie-angel ever again.

He grips his cock and strokes, tight and fast, and Jesus bares his teeth and gasps, “Slower.”

Daryl falters, his chest burning and his thighs tense, because that’s never been the point of jacking off before, not for him. Merle taught him jerkin’ it was just that—you jerk, you nut, you move on. But Daryl forces his arm to slow, stroking his dick more like… Well, the way Jesus had done it while he was kissing him.

It’s weird, touching his dick like this. Like he’s trying to make it last, draw it out—touching himself slow like Jesus wants. Daryl licks his lips, face burning, and he looks up at Jesus with his brows knitted together, like he’s looking for approval.

Those big, beautiful eyes go all glazed and hooded, and Jesus pushes his pants and briefs down under the curve of his ass, running a hand up his dick as it is freed from the confines.

Daryl makes a noise in his throat, squeezing the base of his dick. He’s never seen another guy’s dick before, not like this, not with his own dick in his hand fully hard, and Jesus’ dick is as pretty as the rest of him. He’s longer than Daryl, almost as thick, definitely bigger than average, and he’s cut. His dick curves along with the stroke of his hand, the head leaking and wet, and Daryl closes his eyes and wonders how good it would feel to taste it, to feel it in his mouth, up his ass, anything.

Jesus chuckles, lying back down over Daryl so their dicks rut together when he rolls his hips. Daryl whimpers. “We can work up to all that. There’s no rush,” Jesus says, and Daryl realizes the whole ‘perception’ thing might still be affecting him.

“Said that outloud?”

“Yup. But don’t worry. We’ve got time for all that, I promise.”

Daryl scoffs. “After today? I don’t exactly think—“

“Daryl,” Jesus says, wrapping his hand around Daryl’s cock alongside his own fingers. He kisses the curve of Daryl’s throat when he arches his neck to moan. “We’ve got time. Let’s just work through this one orgasm at a time, alright?”

Daryl growls, wrapping a hand around the back of Jesus’ neck, letting go of his dick so he can grab Jesus’. It makes him hiss, Daryl’s calloused hand rough along his velvet, hot flesh. Daryl likes the sound, and he likes how it feels. He strokes Jesus’ cock, slowly, tight, and he pulls him down into a kiss that is mostly lips pressing.

“Alright… If you say so. But if one of us gets bit or shot or killed some other way before I get yer dick in me, ‘m gonna be pretty pissed off,” Daryl says, knuckles bumping Jesus’ fingers, the tips of their cocks rubbing.

Nothing has ever felt so good. Nothing’s ever felt like fire and cool morning air at the same time, Jesus’ cock fitting perfectly in Daryl’s hand, warm on his palm, the wet from the head smearing across Daryl’s own dick.

“So needy,” Jesus purrs, kissing Daryl again, this time with his tongue slipping past Daryl’s lips like it belongs there. “I promise. We get back in one piece, I’ll give you everything you want  _ tonight _ . Might just need a few water breaks.”

Daryl grumbles.

“But if we take it slower, it’ll be even better. I want to find all the things that make you weak, drive you crazy—everything. You have no idea how much I want you, Daryl,” Jesus says, kissing Daryl again before he can protest.

Daryl isn’t worth anyone wanting him, not like that. He’s not worth the way Jesus treats him, not worth… well, Jesus.

After several minutes, Daryl starts trembling, his arms tense and aching. He lets go of Jesus’ cock and wraps his arms around him. “’m sorry. Sorry, I jus’… Please,” he gasps, and Jesus kisses his temple.

“It’s alright, baby. I’ve got you, come on,” Jesus says, fisting his cock along with Daryl’s, keeping them tight and close as he ruts his hips and strokes them. “That’s it. Come for me, Daryl.”

“Shit, fuck.  _ Jesus _ ,” Daryl gasps, and his toes curl and he pulls at Jesus’ hair, and he lets go.

If jerking off ever made him come, it was nothing like this. Jerking off was a miserable party of deflated balloons, and—well, coming with Jesus kissing his neck, slender fingers and thick cock against his stomach, everything hot and bright and… It’s like New Year’s fireworks.

The sound that tears out of Daryl’s chest is close to pained, trembling as his cock spurts across his stomach, spills over Jesus’ knuckles and dick. Daryl thinks he might be crying, that he’s holding Jesus too tight, he’s gonna bruise, he’s gonna hurt him, but Jesus just holds him and strokes him through the high.

“That’s it, Daryl. Fuck,  _ oh _ ,” Jesus sighs, kissing Daryl’s sweaty temple.

His hips are still moving, his grip on Daryl’s and his cock tensing, and then gone altogether as he presses their bodies tight together, one hand in Daryl’s hair, the other getting up under Daryl’s shoulders. He kisses Daryl wetly, moaning into his mouth as his hips thrust, frantic and uncoordinated.

Daryl licks into his mouth, tingling all over, burning and aching and yet completely starving for it. His cock is leaking lazy drips of cum in the aftershocks, and it hurts, Jesus fucking against him, but he never wants it to stop.

As soon as he thinks that, though, Jesus is breaking the kiss to push his forehead against Daryl’s neck, moaning into his throat as a new wave of heat splashes across Daryl’s stomach. He comes, moaning broken and sweet, “ _ Daryl _ ,” like it’s the only name he needs.

Daryl freezes, eyes wide as he gapes up at the Beamer ceiling, forgetting how to breathe.

Jesus rolls into him, slow and sexy as fuck as he exhales these shaky, satisfied little groans into Daryl’s neck, and Daryl is  _ frozen _ .

He blinks, dazed, feeling the aftermath of the best fucking orgasm he’s ever had come gnawing through his body, wiping his energy clean out of him.

Jesus laughs against his neck, a quick puff of hot air, and Daryl is startled out of his delirium. “I’m sorry,” Jesus pants, propping himself up on one elbow. He peeks down between their stomachs, and Daryl can see the mess of sticky fluid smeared across the both of them, their still-throbbing cocks coated in a sheen of it. “Wow… That’s a mess.”

The heater keeps blasting. Daryl doesn’t remember how to speak.

Jesus uses his clean hand to rake his own hair back out of his face, but it’s still tangled and messy as it falls across his bare shoulders. He looks down at Daryl, forehead misted with sweat, pale eyes warm and soft as he cards that same hand through Daryl’s hair, tucking it away from his face.

Here’s Jesus, looking at Daryl like he’s the most gorgeous thing in the world. Like  _ Daryl _ just completely turned his world upside down then right-side up, then tilted it into something new. Daryl just had his first orgasm with another man, and his entire head is filled with cotton fluff because he just cannot comprehend it.

And then,  _ and then _ , Jesus got off just rubbing off against Daryl, like Daryl’s pleasure was enough to push him over that edge, enough to spear him through with the same twisting, blinding, euphoric heat it did Daryl.

Jesus brushes his thumb across Jesus’ cheek, looking over the features of his face like he’s trying to etch it all into his memory, brand Daryl with his stare as he burns it into his own mind.

Daryl blinks. “What the fuck just happened?”

Jesus laughs, a beautiful, warm sound that makes Daryl think of sleep and comfort and home, and he cups Daryl’s cheek and kisses him. Daryl kisses him back, surprised when his hands get into Jesus’ hair without his outright consent.

“I think it’s safe to say I just single-handedly brought you back from the brink of hypothermia.” Jesus grins. “Literally. It only took one hand,” he says, and Daryl yanks his hair with both hands.

“You think you’re cute?”

“I think I’m adorable,” Jesus purrs, leaning in to kiss Daryl’s jaw. “But you? You’re perfect. The most amazing thing I’ve ever seen—I could’ve watched you come apart like that for  _ hours _ if I didn’t have to come so bad after seeing it.”

Daryl’s face burns, and he tucks his head up under Jesus’ chin. “Shut up. You can’t jus’ say stuff like that t’me. Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Jesus asks, raking his nails absently behind Daryl’s ear.

“…Not yet,” Daryl huffs, practically pouting.

“Okay,” Jesus says. “I can wait.” He kneels up, grabbing his discarded, somewhat damp sweatshirt to clean off their stomachs. He apologizes when Daryl flinches from the cool of it, and Daryl blushes and glares the entire time.

How dare Jesus be so adorable and sweet, cleaning him up and giving him kisses after what was basically two teenagers just rubbing each other off in the backseat at the drive-in? Daryl catches himself thinking what it might be like waking up next to that stupid pretty face, after his legs and arms ache from hanging on all night, his throat sore from begging, his—

“I like you, too…” Daryl says, watching as Jesus pauses, tucking himself into his pants and buckling them with a smile.

“I know.” Jesus lays over him and gives Daryl another slow, soft kiss, cradling Daryl’s face between his hands, his body a warm, comfortable weight. Jesus shifts away after a minute, and he offers Daryl his trench coat, which he clings to like a security blanket. “You should be all dry by the time we get back to Hilltop. But there’s no way your clothes will be.”

Daryl scowls. “I gotta walk back to my trailer with my dick out?”

Jesus laughs. “I was going to suggest you wear my jacket, and we could go to your trailer together. You know, so I could get it back from you, once we got you into some dry clothes.” 

The sound Daryl makes is between a growl and a snort. “You just wanna get back to mine while I’m still naked and tired. You’re tryna take advantage of me.”

A smile spreads across Jesus’ lips, and his hair curtains his face when he turns away and ducks his head. “You’re sassy after sex. I like it.”

Daryl sits up a bit and punches Jesus in the arm. “That wasn’t sex,” he growls.

Jesus rubs his arm, looking dumbfounded, pale eyes wide and glinting. “I’m sorry, I’m pretty sure I got you to come and you got me to come. We came together. Ergo, sex.”

“Your dick wasn’t in my ass.”

“Daryl, if I knew how much you wanted my dick in your ass before today? It would’ve happened by now.” Jesus holds up two fingers. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned it. Twice now.”

“It wasn’t sex,” Daryl huffs instead of giving that comment a reply.

Jesus chuckles, turning back to Daryl and leaning over him. He brushes Daryl’s hair back from his face again, bumps their noses together as he plays with the space between kisses. “It’s whatever you want it to be, Daryl. If you ask me, sex is consensual pleasure between two people. But if you wanna make special little boxes for different sexual acts, then we can do that.”

Daryl sighs, frustrated. “It’s… I dunno how to… It’s a lot.”

“It’s okay,” Jesus says, kissing him softly. “It’s alright. We’ve got time for that, too.”

“How bout you get us home, then we can talk about how to define sex, or… whatever,” Daryl says, tangling his hands into Jesus’ hair. “So long as I get to touch your hair all the time, I don’t even care.”

“I knew you liked my hair.” Jesus grins. “Are you feeling warm enough now?”

Daryl lays back, shuffling under the coat. “I guess so…”

“Well, you might cool down some on the ride home.” Jesus reaches around to the front seat, grabs his beanie, and turns back to Daryl. “I’ll get you warm again when we get there.” He tugs the beanie down over Daryl’s ears, then cups his face. “Alright?”

“Don’t push it. I just needed you to save my life.”

“Yeah. After you saved mine,” Jesus says, his smile softening as Daryl reaches up to brush his fingers over the back of Jesus’ knuckles.

“...I guess so. We’re even then,” Daryl says.

“Hm, not quite. You made me drop my 80’s Pop CD.”

“Sonovabitch,” Daryl growls, pulling away while simultaneously shoving Jesus off.

_ Give the little brat an inch, he’ll take it all _ , Daryl thinks, watching Jesus climb into the driver’s seat. That little smile on Jesus’ face, though… Daryl curls up under the warmth of Jesus’ trench coat, closing his eyes. He feels tired as all holy fuck, but that little smile is all he needs.

Daryl will give it all, if Jesus wants it.


End file.
